Dead Line
by Mike-045
Summary: Series Spoilers. Intended as a tribute to the series, its great author, and Harry. Hopefully I've done the characters justice.
1. Chapter One

I'd hoped my funeral would be better than the obituary. From the look of things, it would be.

I was standing on the second story balcony inside St. Mary of the Angels, my hands on the polished mahogany bar that lined said balcony (not that I could feel anything). Father Anthony Forthill was delivering a sermon, or something, about me – I don't know the proper term, as I've never been to a proper funeral, really – to the gathered guests and well-wishers in the congregation, who sat in two long columns

Not that I could hear it; I wasn't in the same world as my friends, foes, and newfound family were. Mine was a world of shades of grey, now literally. Any other time, I may have appreciated the irony in that, but not now. Just as the world around me was dull and colorless, so too were the sounds – or lack thereof. Everything was muted, like if I was hearing it from underwater, or on the other side of a thin wall.

His speech seemed to be impacting the guests here in almost as many ways as they themselves were varied. The Carpenter family was seated in the front row of the cathedral, with Michael and his cane capping the nearer side of their row and Sanya the far seat. I had a feeling that they were accustomed to being there, though not for this reason. I felt a pang of guilt when I saw Michael's cane – it reminded me of his sacrifice for me, not the just the one that had cost him his career as a Knight of the Cross, but all of those times he'd sallied forth with me out into Old Night for no reason other than I'd asked him to be there with me. Molly – my God, Molly. The grasshopper was on crutches now, too, with a huge cast on her leg from where she'd been injured the night the Red Court died. Mouse was sitting with Sanya, regal-looking and fierce at the same time; which was only served to compliment the only official Knight of the Cross.

Another group of people were placed in the row opposite the Carpenter family – the Senior Council of the White Council of Wizards. Well. Most of them. Gregori Cristos, whom I wouldn't have thought to be there, and surprisingly, the Gatekeeper, were both absent. Ebenezar and the Merlin sat at opposing ends of their row, with a stone-faced Ancient Mai (whom I hadn't expected to show up), grim Martha Liberty, and stoic Injun Joe strung out between them. Several Wardens of the old guard were present among the Senior Council, though I only recognized Bjorn (Bjork? Beor? Beorn?) and Luccio. Ramirez and Chandler were in the row behind them, along with a handful of other Wizards and Wardens I was familiar with. Their grey cloaks were well-suited to the monotone I found myself in, and I idly thought that mine would have been, as well.

There were many other people I'd run into over the years, there – only Mab herself could have declared St. Mary's as Accorded Neutral Ground for the day. It was the only reason I could think of that could have kept them all from going at each other's throats. The entire Raith families had turned out, and were holding sway in their own apparent section near the back, chilling and beautiful. Thomas had his head bowed and Justine was clutching his jacket with one tight-fisted hand, their heads all-but touching. They were behind the Wizards.

Somehow, almost all of the Alphas had returned to Chicago, for one last time – Will, Georgia, Andi (with a tearful Waldo Butters supporting her arm). They were near the Carpenters, the ragtag group of kids I'd once dismissed as out of their league, all grown up. To my intense surprise, a lithe, shapely woman I recognized as Tera West sat in the midst of them, a long arm stretched maternally over both Will and Georgia's shoulders.

There was an empty casket, up at the front on a table from behind which the padre was preaching. They hadn't found my body, which didn't quite surprise me. Lake Michigan is deep and dark – some fish were probably having a field day down there. In place of my body there was my tattered duster, spare blasting rod, and my original force ring – and a photograph. It was a candid shot of me from one of my appearances on Larry Fowler's show, smiling awkwardly in the limelight. Appropriate.

Forthill reached his conclusion, then beckoned for the guests to stand and view the casket before proceeding for the cemetery, or leaving, if they wished. I'm not sure if that's what he said, but it's how the movies do it, and they all complied. I smiled wanly as Charity gently swatted down Michael when he tried to help Molly to her feet, when he himself was walking with a limp. She pulled them both up, and kept them both steady with the help of their family.

But Murphy beat them to the casket. She beat everyone.

She stood there for a minute, in a tasteful black dress that fell to her ankles. I imagined that it clashed badly with her hair. Murphy stretched a hand out to place something in the coffin. She stayed a moment longer, everyone lining up behind her, then hurried away, arms by her sides and head bowed. I moved down the balcony to see what it was.

It was my glove. Where'd she gotten that?

Ebenezar let the Carpenters go ahead of the Senior Council of Wizards, without turning to see their own opinions on it. The Merlin nodded his acquiescence all the same, and I felt a grudging respect for Arthur Langtry. They all took some time at the open casket. Michael openly wept into it, his family doing the same. Poor little Harry looked shellshocked, but somehow Molly managed to compose herself as she stared into the abyss. Ebenezar shook his head – in what? Disgust? Anger? Apathy, guilt? Luccio slid her hand down the side of it as she passed by. Ramirez lightly punched his thigh as he stared at my picture, then dropped a single broken Vampire fang into the plush interior.

So it was, as they filed past. Some took longer than others. Some couldn't stand to look into it, and just hurried past. Thomas was one of the latter.

It was over sooner than I'd thought it would have been. Then the pallbearers stepped up. Thomas took point, unnaturally still. Ebenezar stood next to him, taking another side. Michael, with his oldest son and Sanya supporting him, took his place with a resolved steadiness I hadn't seen from him in years. Forthill closed the casket, and beckoned for Will to lift the fourth corner. Butters appeared out of nowhere and took a spot between Eb and Michael.

Gentleman Johnny Marcone lifted the sixth, last handle. His face was blank and expressionless, but his green eyes were utterly fierce.

Together the six men carried my empty coffin out of the cathedral.

I looked around at the guests, some of whom were already making way to follow my friends out to the hearse I presumed to be outside.

I myself made my way down to the ground floor, and followed them outside.

There was an unmarked hearse outside, just like I'd thought. The pallbearers gently lowered my casket into the back and climbed in themselves, silent, regardless of any personal enmities they may have shared. The car cranked to life and slowly turned off of the curb.

I followed it to the cemetery.

* * *

There was a police escort, courtesy of Stallings and whatever influence Murphy'd had left, I guess. They were joined en route to the home of my already-open grave and tombstone by a myriad herd of vehicles. I saw Mac's Trans-Am, a conspicuous Rolls Royce Silver Wraith housing its eponymous owners, and multiple motorcycles, one of them carrying a young man and woman, both unworldly beautiful and dressed in green. I recognized Kincaid behind the wheel of an unmarked sedan, and a young girl riding shotgun more out of tradition than not being able to reach the peddles.

It didn't take as long for the motorcade to reach Graceland as I'd thought it would. Most of the vehicles turned into a nearby parking garage, and filled it quickly. Others didn't – the Raith family being a notable exception, and Eb's dinosaur of a Ford pickup another.

They lowered my coffin into the open grave soon after, the black-clad crowd gathered around it. It was the first time I'd seen Thomas or his older sister wearing just black, not counting life-or-death situations.

The closing ceremonies ended without a hitch, and almost everyone made their way back to their cars before the sun was going down.

I watched several people with keen interest. Eb walked up to Thomas of his own accord, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder in a gesture far more intimate than would normally befit simple acquaintances. It was more akin to one of family. They walked away to their cars talking quietly.

Murphy also approached Michael and Sanya, resolute and broad-shouldered. This was a conversation long in the coming, I knew, and wished I could hear it. Sanya managed to contain himself despite his personal exuberance, which I wouldn't have expected. They too left together, the trio joining up with the rest of the Carpenters shortly after. Molly looked terrible on crutches.

Fix and Lily talked with the remaining Alphas for a little while. Butters was still wet-eyed, with Andi holding his shoulder, now. A red-haired beauty among all the other beautiful people here showed up and offered something consoling to the group of them. I wouldn't have pegged my Godmother for the sentimental type, but there you have it.

Marcone and Kincaid shared a chat which ended in them swapping business cards. Ivy ignored them both as she watched the pallbearers fill my grave. I saw her pick up Mister from somewhere and carry the huge cat out of the cemetery with her.

When almost all of the guests had left, I turned around and saw a single man standing alone in the distance. He was on top of a hill, standing the shade of a tree – the setting sun should have sent his shadow in front of him, but it stretched out to his side as if it had its own will. I recognized the frayed noose hanging around his neck, and then he vanished.

Mouse was looking as sad as a dog could be, and howled mournfully when the last shovelful of dirt was thrown on my grave. He left with Forthill to wherever Maggie was, just as I'd asked of him, I assumed.

Everyone was gone, then, and I myself made to leave for who knew where – when two figures, one tall and dark, the other on the short side, stepped out from behind opposing tombs and walked together to my grave to talk amongst themselves. The pair was the black-swathed Gatekeeper, and an elderly black man – Uriel, the Archangel, in disguise.

They both turned around at the exact same moment to look straight at me. Talk about creepy. Then they were gone.

I walked over to the lonely grave and sat down on the freshly-turned earth. I stared at the words on the aging stone:

HARRY DRESDEN – HE DIED DOING THE RIGHT THING

I reached a hand out, tentatively, and ran my outstretched fingers along the pentacle engraved into the granite. I couldn't feel it.

I stood up and ran away, duster billowing in my wake. I had someone to talk to.

* * *

I knocked on the old oak door, which Mortimer Lindquist opened. He had a gun in his hand, and said, "Whose there?"

I put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Morty. We've got to have a chat."

He hardly registered surprise at my voice as he responded, "Of course. Come on in, Harry," he waved beyond him, to reveal a few figures I couldn't identify in the gloom. "We've been waiting for you."


	2. Chapter Two

"They all came here, after the funeral, Harry," Mortimer Lindquist said to me. He couldn't see me, but so long as we kept our attention focused on the conversation at hand we could communicate easily enough. He continued, "I don't think that any introductions are necessary, or else they wouldn't be here to hunt down your…" he struggled with the word, "murderer."

I looked Mort up and down. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been working his way back up into the good graces of Chicago's supernatural community. Before that, he'd been a lonely sham working séances to convince his well-to-do customers that Uncle Bob really did forgive them for missing his last birthday. A guilt trip from yours truly and many of Mort's undead friends being hounded and hunted by the Nightmare later, and the little ectomancer had become something of a badass in terms of talking with the undead.

Now, he was a changed man. He'd lost weight and almost had a spring in his step as we walked around the room, handing everyone drinks. His eyes sparkled with a subdued intelligence, and his dark clothes looked good on him.

"That's fine," I answered him, "I wouldn't have expected any less."

That was a lie – I hadn't expected to die in the first place, not then and there, at any rate. And I certainly hadn't expected these people to show up for my sake, either. The Alphas plus Tera, about a dozen in number, all told, stood and sat in one corner of Mort's living room. Butters wasn't with them. Will stood nearest to the table, his glasses absent, pointing at the map of Chicago that I'd used as a blueprint for Little Chicago as Thomas hovered over his shoulder. My brother was wearing honest-to-God chain-maille, a full suit of the stuff that went down to his ankles and wrists, underneath dark biker leathers. He'd cut his sprawling hair short into a Zac Efron-like model that made him look utilitarian and businesslike, somehow. The sawed-off shotgun, Ghurka knife, and U.S. cavalry saber that were strapped to his person suited his stance – that of a predator waiting to be shown its prey. The two of them nodded in cohesion as they moved from one area of the city to another.

Ebenezar McCoy and Carlos Ramirez were also in the room, Eb whittling idly on a short length of wood and Ramirez sifting through a book from Mort's shelf. Neither of them wore their Council cloaks and robes, Eb in his old overalls and flannel and Ramirez decked out in black cargo pants, a light shirt, and boating shoes. I noticed his rune-inscribed combat glove on a lamp-table, presumably joined by its mate in a lighter, similar magical focus. Both of their staves were leaned next to a hat-rack.

Ramirez was having a fast-paced conversation with Bob, who was sitting on a shelf. I couldn't hear them, but I got the impression they were speaking in Spanish. Awesome.

"Morty," I began, "how did Bob get here?"

The ectomancer started at my question, then straightened and said, "Your Godmother was kind enough to deliver your things to Will and Georgia before vanishing. We found the skull in a duffle bag, along with some other things. Notebooks, binders, your plans for some kind of model of the city. Things like that."

I felt the phantom presence of cold spreading its tentacles in my stomach. "Morty… what else was in that bag?"

"Lots of things. What would you have in mind?"

"Two binders. One of them blue, the other one green." I tried to keep my tone even, but in this state it came out rushed and ostentatiously worried. I heard raised voices in a side-room.

Mort also heard them, as did everyone else. Tera leapt to her feet, face screwed up in focus. Ebenezar carved a hurried sigil into his whittling-piece, which I felt power stir into and from even on the other side of the room. Thomas' knife appeared in his hand, and Ramirez threw on his gloves, but nobody moved to the door. They looked uneasily to Mortimer.

"Warden Luccio took the green notebook into the study. I keep a silver summoning circle in there for some of my less amiable contacts." He wiped a hand to his forehead. He was sweating, anxious. "Why do you ask?"

A monster's voice, ragged, terrible, something I'd only ever had nightmares about, surged through the house like a tidal wave. It shook furnishings from the wall and shattered lighbulbs.

"HARRY DRESDEN! IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO JOIN US IN THE DEPTHS DOWN-BELOW. YOU HAVE ESCAPED OUR GRASPS BEFORE, BUT NOT NOW! YOU KNOW MY NAME - CHAUNZAGOROTH!

"NOW IS YOUR TIME!"

And then, all Hell broke loose.

* * *

The front wall and side of Mort's house exploded as raw demonic energy coursed through it, rewriting reality into a mess of destruction – a fresco of shadow and flame. It was beautiful, truly world-class use of the Art, don't get me wrong.

Unfortunately, the dark shadow-shape that crouched in the ruins of Mortimer Lindquist's home was looking at me. I could feel its malice upon my skin where I had felt nothing else. It was terrifying. I don't think that it would have accepted the compliment.

A multitude of more waist-high shadow-shapes, made of twisted joints and inhuman screams, poured out of the darkness and into the remains of the living room. Mort shouted in surprise and backpedaled into another part of the house. Ebenezar threw his inscribed stick right between the eyes of the largest demon, where it exploded into a ball of lightning, coursing up and down the screaming demon's contorted face and body. It fell to its knees, crashing to the ground and spreading its ruin throughout the innards of the building.

Several of the smaller figures made to maul Mort, only for a thin wall of liquid to coalesce between them and their target. They crashed into Ramirez' shield, and only dust sifted through harmlessly to the other side.

There was a shotgun blast as Thomas was thrown outside, more demons following him. A number of howls ripped into the air as the chaos spread out into the yard, huge wolves and lesser demons playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek among the now-granite statuary and tall shrubs of Mort's front yard.

I think a grenade went off underneath the greater demon's feet, probably courtesy of Ramirez. A truly massive wolf, more grey than brown, now, was dancing around its dazed head. A pained yelp from outside caused the wolf-Tera to snarl and turn her back on it, which Chauncy thanked her for by kicking her across the room.

That did it for me. I stepped before the monster that had hunted me since I was a kid, translucent hands raised above my head and palms open. I shouted a challenge at the demon:

"I see you! I have seen you and your minions, and I do not fear! You come too late, and I mock you for it!" I clinched my hands into tight fists that would have bled in reality, and snarled, "Appreciate the irony, you bastard!"

Twin points of scarlet light ignited in the middle of its face, and I knew that Chauncy could see me. Good.

"CHILD OF DARKNESS, YOU ARE MINE. AS IS YOUR OWN WHENCE I HAVE CLAIMED YOU." And it reached for my not-body with one elongated, clawed appendage.

There was a flash of black and white, and steel, as my brother traced a perfect line along the smoking-demon's wrist. It howled in rage as Ramirez finished the job with his Warden's sword, hurling a series of discolored blobs into its face and chest. The crab-like armor on Chauncy's body crumpled and smoked, flaking off like dehydrated parchment. His monstrous hand fell to the floor with a great crash.

The other limb swung at me and my friends, but disintegrated the closer it got to my side of the room. Ebenezar stepped forward, slowly, a staff in either hand – one of them Black. He was shouting with incredible depth in clarity in a language I didn't understand, maybe Old Irish. I could see bonds of cold iron appearing in the air, binding the stumps of its arms to its blackened torso. The demon shrieked and threw fire at my mentor, my grandfather, but it interspersed harmlessly into the air before him. The old Scotsman threw up his hands, and with them his dual staffs, and as he did so the demon fell into a silent rage. It shrank down, and down, frozen still as the bonds upon it grew in strength with its struggles.

Chauncy kept his one still-good eye on me as its body died. Ramirez blanketed it in a wave of his surely-emerald green magic, and then it was gone.

I don't think anyone was too badly hurt – several of the Alphas entered the ruins of the house after the smaller demon's bodies melted into ectoplasm with slight limps or wounds on their limbs, and Tera was clutching her abdomen with more rage on her face than pain. Everyone else seemed to be alright as Ebenezar did a little healing magic on their scratches and bruises, sitting down awkwardly now that the fun was over.

Mort walked over to me, looking like he was about to break out in tears at his home being destroyed so thoroughly. He cleared his voice, then said, "Well. This old place hasn't seen a party like that in over forty years." He laughed bleakly.

Before I could answer, Luccio stumbled out of the room the demons had exited, bleeding heavily from her left arm. Her sword was in her right, smeared with ectoplasm. She fell to the ground as a shocked Mort, Ramirez and Ebenezar gathered around her.

I heard Mort say that she'd shut the portal before more go through, and a bewildered look came over his face as she said something to him. He turned to me, shaken, and said something.

"Sorry, Mort what was that? I wasn't paying attention."

"I told you that she'd managed to close the portal to the Nevernever just in time, Harry. Something big was coming through after them." He paused, then said, "And I asked if you've heard the name "He Who Walks Behind"?"

* * *

May be continuing this after all, who knows at this point. All criticisms are appreciated!


	3. Chapter Three

Night had fallen, and for once it wasn't a problem for me. Here in my cozy, stark little corner of the monochromatic world, I could only really tell that Old Night was in full sway because of the moon in the sky rather than the sun.

Mort, Ramirez, Thomas, Will and the Alphas had piled into Will and Georgia's massive SUV and made for the Carpenters'. Being incorporeal 'n all, I'd walked, which I'd discovered to amount to more or less the same speed of their Star Destroyer of a car. Interesting. Anyway, we'd made it to Michael's home (it's not a house, it's a home, believe you me). The Star Destroyer pulled up behind Charity's van and my friends piled out.

I walked over to Mort, duster billowing slightly behind me from a breeze I couldn't feel, and lifted a hand to his shoulder to speak to him.

Another hand fell gently upon my own shoulder first, causing me to jump, shout a cuss (not curse) word and turn around to see who it was.

It was an Archangel. _The_ Archangel, actually – Uriel. He was once again in the guise of an elderly black man, and to my surprise he was full-colour. I rubbernecked to see that my friends had gone inside, so I shrugged and returned my attention to him. I decided that I could afford to be a little less respectful than usual, given the circumstances of our meeting.

"What do you want? I'm a little busy."

He chuckled and said, "An early retirement. But this isn't about me, Harry – it's about you. And the subject at hand is a little more dire than just what you want."

"I don't know about that," I replied, "my wants have always taken a pretty high spot on my priorities list."

Uriel rolled his eyes and said, "Higher than your needs?"

I cringed and answered him, "No, not quite. What are you getting at? Shouldn't you be leading some Boy Scouts into the desert for forty years or something?"

"That's my weekend job. For someone who got so lucky in life, you sure aren't performing so well as a soul."

I blinked. "Wait. What?"

"A soul, Harry." Uriel sighed deeply and wrung his hands, an oddly human gesture. "You. Are. A. Soul. Not a spirit, not a ghost – just one more lost soul wandering the windswept world."

"How poetic. What's the difference?"

"As a soul, you've got access to things those beings I just mentioned don't – and as the soul of a wizard, you can do things that others can't."

"Like juju?" I was hopeful for the first time since… well, I'm not sure since when. Hell's Bells, what's wrong with me?

He shook his head. "Not that juju. Think more along the lines of what you are. What I am. What we both can do."

I licked my lips, an old habit, and thought hard on that. As an Archangel, Uriel had more pure energy, chi, mana, what have you, than I would ever be likely to acquire as a mortal. As a being, he was literally made of power of a sort – Soulfire. Think like the Energizer Bunny, but with the ability to bring civilizations to their knees through plague and death rather than banging on a little drum for all of eternity. Yeah. That was Uriel. Fear the quiet ones, indeed.

And as a soul, not a ghost, that was sort of what I was, as well. A being of Soulfire, the power of Creation and the polar opposite of what power the Fallen abused.

I lifted a hand up to about chest level, palm facing the sky, and created a little ball of sunlight into my hand.

I stood there in shock for about a minute, until I noticed that Uriel was staring slack-jawed at me. "Did that really never occur to you?"

"Would you be disappointed if I said yes?"

He shrugged the snark off like a dog would throw off water and replied, "Regardless. It's good that you've had this little epiphany. Maybe now it'll come to you that you've got a deadline."

"Yeah, really," I said. I paused in thought, then continued, "um."

"How eloquent." Interruptive jerk.

"Right. Can I do… anything else? Obviously conventional juju is out of the question, but what about…" I struggled over the question, unsure of what to ask.

"Your Sight?" Uriel shrugged again, a little deeper this time. "I'm not sure that I can tell you that or not. I may be stepping outside of my bounds by revealing your own limits to you.

"As for that," he pointed a finger at the ball of sunshine, still flickering in my hand, "you may be needing to use it here shortly. Maybe not. The choice is yours." He smiled fondly, and then he was gone.

I grit my teeth and extinguished the ball of sunshine. We'd gotten lucky with Chauncy, back at Mort's – he hadn't expected the numbers or abilities of who all had been there, ending his shot at gobbling up my soul. But he was more of an accountant than anything; the real baddies would be coming out of the woodwork now that night had fallen. I took some solace in that I could use Soulfire, but that hope was quashed pretty thoroughly when I remembered that overusing it would take away any hope of returning to life.

It had to be a Monday, didn't it?


End file.
